


Alaska

by Schuyler



Series: Come and Get Me [1]
Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-07-04
Updated: 2004-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-03 16:41:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4107799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schuyler/pseuds/Schuyler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alaska isn't as bad as all that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alaska

The door of the twin engine swung open and Agent R stood staring, wrapped in four heavy layers. There was snow and ice as far as he could see. So this was the dreaded Alaska. He squinted into the sun and made his way down the four steps to the de-iced tarmac. It was then that he noticed the welcoming committee; two men and a woman, most likely his new compatriots at the outpost. He recognized his commanding officer from the dossier photos. R hefted his bag higher on his shoulder and went to them with his hand outstretched. "Major Saint-Annecy? Agent R, reporting for duty." 

He was nearly toppled when the woman, barely more than five feet tall and wearing a gray parka with fur lined hood, leapt forward to pat him on the back (a pat that would certainly leave a bruise) and take one of his bags. "None of that nonsense here. We'll call you Michael, and you'll call me Petra, all right?" She stared intently at him until he nodded, shakily, and then turned to introduce him to the others. "This is Gregory," she said, indicating the Major, "and Alejandro." Petra's arm was still holding him close to her side. "Welcome to Wales." 

Michael shoved his bag into the covered back of the huge truck. This assignment wasn't going at all like he had imagined it. He'd read the files while packing up his studio apartment in Bonn. He'd made himself familiar with the agents, their mission here, the equipment. Gregoire Saint-Annecy, a French-Canadian officer with a habit of disobeying orders, was the senior operative here in Alaska, and his team was charged with keeping surveillance on the Bering Strait. It was an important job, protecting North America from Russian attack by sea, but not one that anyone seemed to want. Major Saint-Annecy's predecessor had described the experience as living at the edge of nowhere, terrified at all moments that the Russians would descend. They could warn against a landing in Alaska, but there were not enough of them to fight off an attack. The station had no long-range weaponry. In the winter, it was dark all the day, leaving one alone with only their terror and their duty. 

"Michael!" Alejandro shouted from the passenger seat. "Get in the truck! We're going for pie!" 

*

The road leading away from the airstrip was bumpy, to say the least. Calling it a road might have been misleading. But "Gregory", behind the wheel, bounced them along with a smile on his face and only the faintest indication that he knew where he was going. It was nearly May, but the ground was still covered with a hard layer of snow and ice. The sun glared off of it, and when Michael could see again, there was the town. It wasn't much, a handful of houses and businesses scattered across a tiny, six street grid. Petra, sitting to his left, began to give the guided tour. She pointed out the church and the bar (which she said he was never to go into alone) and houses of people he would come to know. There was a general store and a mechanic. It was strangely picturesque, all the weathered wood, none painted except for the church, and the building they were pulling up to, a whitewashed diner with a sign in the window that said ÔApril May's'. And then down below, Ô40% NATO discount'. 

A bell clanged when they went in, Petra leading the charge, and they hung their parkas on the hooks by the door. It was toasty warm indoors. The diner was nearly empty, but Michael had no clear idea of what time it was, so he didn't know if it was meal time. He had left his apartment in the dark of early morning, taken the train to Frankfurt, flown to Toronto, to Juneau, to here. He'd tried twice to change his watch to the current time, and then given up. The four of them settled into a booth near the center of the room. There were two old men playing chess up against a back wall, and three huge men gorging themselves on hamburgers. Now that their parkas were off, Michael could see that the other three agents were wearing thick knit sweaters. He felt slightly overdressed in his plain gray suit. "Michael," Gregory said carefully, as if he was trying not to offend, "you've got a note pinned to you." 

Michael's eyes opened wide. Sometime during the long journey, he'd forgotten. "Agent L" it said across the front. G had pinned it carefully to his breast pocket when he saw Michael off at the train station. "So you don't get lost, okay?" Michael had blushed nervously and nodded. G had leaned on tiptoe to kiss his cheek and then pushed Michael off towards the metal detectors, waving goodbye. Michael touched his cheek now in the diner. He could still feel it. 

Petra began to read the letter aloud. "Petpet, This is Michael Wright. He was one of our best and he's sure to do an excellent job for you. But you absolutely must ask him how he earned his reassignment to Bering Station. It's the most fabulous story and, instead of writing you immediately like the faithful correspondent I am, I sent the man himself to relate it to you. And Petra, do take care of Michael for me. He's...Oh." Petra looked up at them and held her breath just a moment. "Well, some things are best not shared." She slid out of her seat and ran to tuck the note in a pocket of her parka. 

"So," Gregory asked when Petra was settled again beside him in the booth. "How did you end up here?" He was already smiling like he knew the answer. Michael swallowed nervously. He really had no desire to relive his shame in Paris but was saved by a woman bearing pie. 

She started setting plates of steaming pecan pie in front of them. "Michael, this is Mindy Nielson," Alejandro said, smiling up at Mindy. "She's the proprietor here." 

The pie smelled heavenly, but Michael remembered his manners. "It's very nice to meet you, ma'am." Mindy looked young, but was pleasantly motherly and smiled big at Michael. 

"Oh heavens, don't call me ma'am." She turned her now empty tray and stuck it under her arm. "So, Michael, where are you from?" 

Michael already had a forkful of pie in his mouth and hurried to swallow. "Kent, in England. Well, originally. Before Bering Station, I was posted to Bonn." 

"Oh!" Mindy shifted her hips so that she was a bit closer to Michael. "With our Major?" 

Something that felt like terror raced up Michael's spine and he didn't know why. "If you mean Major Eberbach, then yes." 

Mindy's eyes lit up. "Go on then," Petra said. "Tell us what happened." 

"We," Michael's throat seemed to dry up and close, but Petra nodded him ahead. "We had been sent to Paris. A man calling himself Maxwell was supposed to meet up with some buyers to hand over the plans to a sensitive satellite system. We were to ascertain the identity of Maxwell, and retrieve the plans. For that, the Chief had contracted Eroica." This part was easy, the part where things had gone according to plan. "The plans were delivered to me and I..." Michael's eyes slid away towards the napkin dispenser. He would begin his time in Alaska honestly, even if it meant destroying the faith his fellow agents had in him. "I was tricked, by an agent of the enemy, and handed them over again. All of our work was for nothing." Michael wrapped his hand around his water glass but didn't pick it up. He waited in the silence. 

"And?" Petra prodded again. "That can't be all of the story." 

"That is where my part ends. The enemy got away to Reykjavik. The Chief was furious. Told Major Eberbach that if he could not manage a team, then it would be taken from him. He and Eroica were sent to Iceland alone. I was sent here." There was another long silence, and when he looked up, Petra's eyes were wide and Gregory was smiling. 

"Off by themselves?" she asked. 

Michael nodded and had a sip of his water. "There was a lot of door slamming in the hotel, Eroica smashed a mirror against a wall, but the Major seemed oddly resigned, almost glad to go. He was probably glad to be rid of the rest of us." 

"Probably," Mindy said with a sly grin, and then she went off to tend to her other customers. 

*

It was still light when they returned to Bering Station, a two story house shingled with weather-beaten wood. It stood between two overgrown, and yet oddly gnarled and stunted trees that blocked the house from the windward side. The place looked dismally old and creaky. As Gregory drove the truck into the attached garage, Michael imagined the draughts inside. 

The house turned out to be surprisingly warm and well-furnished. The outside was a bit of a ruse. There were four pegs by the back door for their coats and their boots stayed in the mudroom. The whole place was furnished in the sort of found-wood furniture one found in a ski lodge, and there were throws over the back of every sofa and chair. The mudroom led into the kitchen, the kitchen opened onto a great room. Petra pointed out the door of the watch room. He would have mistaken it for a closet. On the second floor, the bedrooms were laid out in a neat little line, four doors down. Michael's room was third along. He shared an adjoining bathroom with Alejandro. Alejandro pushed the door open for him and turned on the light. "Your predecessor was often cold, so there are extra blankets in the closet." The bed was made out of branches or logs or something, like the rest of the furniture. There was a dresser and a knobby little nightstand with a lamp on it. The rug on the floor had a repeating reindeer pattern. 

"My predecessor," Michael asked slowly, stowing his bags in the corner. "What happened to him?" He half-expected that he was replacing someone who had been killed in a gun battle with the Russians. 

"Stav? He fell in love with a local girl, Mindy's niece Allison. Got married and ran back to Greece with her." Alejandro was smiling at him. "Settle in. We usually eat dinner at 7." And then he disappeared down the dark hallway. 

Michael unpacked his two suitcases, set his book on the nightstand and his toothbrush in the cup in the bathroom, folded his pajamas and tucked them under his pillow. 

Dinner (steak, for the special occasion) was served promptly at seven. It seemed that Major Saint-Annecy had cooked, with assistance (or more likely hindrance) from Petra. Petra was on watch and disappeared every fifteen minutes to check the monitors. Gregory smiled at her sort of indulgently, though, while she clattered around and slowed him down. After dinner, Petra broke out the Trivial Pursuit set. Michael was smart enough to realize that these were obviously hardcore players and he was at a distinct disadvantage, so he quickly added himself to Petra's team. Petra, Alejandro, and Gregory got into heated arguments over the validity of the answers and Gregory was forever pulling volumes from their complete set of the Encyclopedia Britannica to settle arguments. An hour later, Michael found himself heatedly arguing the attribution of a Churchill quote with his superior officer. Gregory maintained that it was Roosevelt. Michael was vindicated. When the game was over (Gregory and Alejandro had won), he sheepishly apologized to Major Saint-Annecy. Gregory laughed, a charming deep chuckle. "It's part of the game, Michael. Don't worry about it." Michael smiled back, and then went into the kitchen to help Petra with the coffees. 

*

Petra knocked on Michael's door after he was in his pajamas and reading. "Michael?" she asked, peering around the edge of the door. Michael waved her in. He recognized the envelope in her hand. Petra sat on the edge of his bed. "I thought that you might want to read the rest. It ... it didn't feel appropriate for mixed company." She handed it over, and then stayed a moment more, weighing her words. "We're very glad to have you, Michael. You come highly recommended, even if... We all made our mistakes to get here." She smiled ruefully. "Sleep tight." And she was gone again. Michael looked down at the envelope in his hands. The two pin holes were still plainly visible. 

He was too curious and he couldn't help it, he slid the letter from the envelope and unfolded it. G's handwriting looped and whorled in a way that felt completely organic, pushing the reader along like waves. It looked just like he sounded. "Petra," he had written, and her name looked beautiful on the page, "do take care of Michael for me. He's one of our best, and I can't tell you how sad I am to have to part with him. He hasn't been with us very long, but the time has been wonderful. He's sweet and kind and smarter than both of us, but he's very gentle, so please be kind to him. I couldn't bear to know he was unhappy out there. All of my love, G." 

*

Michael was awoken by gunfire. He sat bolt upright in bed, took his firearm from the drawer in his nightstand, and then sidled down the stairs with his gun at the ready. Two more blasts sounded out and Michael turned the corner into the kitchen, his gun held in front of him and his eye already aiming. "Hey," Alejandro said casually. "Good morning." Alejandro was eating a bowl of cereal and reading a week old copy of El Pais. Michael lowered his weapon and blinked. He was standing in the kitchen in his underwear and clasping his gun. He was cold. And hopefully still asleep. "Did the noise wake you? Gregory and Petra are on the range out back. We thought we'd let you sleep in. All that travel," Alejandro raised a shoulder and grinned apologetically. "Do you want some cereal?" He held out the box. The whole scene was rather bizarre. 

"I think I need a shower first. And maybe a cup of tea." Michael turned to drag himself back up the stairs. 

"I'll turn on the kettle," Alejandro called after him. Michael waved over his shoulder with his free hand and then locked the safety back on his gun. 

*

"Michael! You're up!" Michael was indeed. He'd stumbled in and out of the shower and had a cup of tea. He was ready to face the day. Gregory was hanging up his parka, but Petra was pulling Michael's down from its peg. "Come outside, Michael. You have to see this." 

Alejandro smirked at him as he stood up and Michael raised his cup to Alejandro before setting it down and taking his coat. He was feeling much more relaxed already. He felt as if he'd been living with Petra's manic energy his whole life. 

Outside, Petra led him down a wooden walk to a five foot railing at the edge of a cliff. Beyond the cliff lay the Strait. Petra passed over a set of binoculars and leaned against the railing. Michael looked through them and could make out, very faintly, a peak. "Is that ..." he asked a little nervously. 

"Mt. Dezhneva. It's Russia." Michael shivered. He hadn't realized just how close they were, how easy it would be to attack by sea. "It has to be abnormally clear to see it. I was here seven months before I saw it." 

Michael lowered the binoculars but still held them with two hands. "What you said last night. How ... how did you get here?" 

Petra smiled ruefully. She was worrying the end of her hood tie between her teeth. "I was one of Major Eberbach's alphabets. But G told you that, yes?" Petra looked at him only a moment before turning around to rest her elbows against the rail. "I had been with him half a year, elsewhere in the office before. He knew me. He took myself and Agent Z to be the security detail for a NATO delegate at talks in London. Eroica showed up, but you could have guessed that, right?" 

Michael shrugged and leaned against his end of the railing. "For a mission of the Major's in Britain, it is expected." 

Petra laughed. "It is. I had never met him, but G had told me lots. G thinks the world of him." Michael thought that was putting it mildly. "The Major had left Z and myself to guard the delegate during his afternoon nap. Z was inside and I was out. The man could have been alone, he was in no danger." Petra seemed to catch herself. "But that is an excuse." She tugged the cord from her mouth. "Eroica appeared looking for the Major, but seemed keen to chat with me. I ... was charmed. He was like a whirlwind, and I abandoned my post. We went shopping." She seemed more than a little embarrassed. 

"Was it fun?" he asked, nudging her a bit. 

"The most fun I've ever had." She smiled big at the memory. "But the Major gave me a loud lecture and sent me here to learn a thing or two about duty. I understand." There was a long pause. Through the sparse trees, they could see Bering Station. Michael realized how completely nondescript it was. "I ran into him when I went with Gregory to give the yearly report. He did not shake my hand, but he called me Agent L." 

Michael understood how much that meant. The Major felt that ranks and letters were his to strip if an operative had failed in his sight. "I think mostly he's stopped blaming us for falling prey to Eroica's charms." 

The corner of Petra's mouth quirked up. Almost too quiet to hear, she said, "Men who live in glass houses..." 

The cold wind was beginning to bite into Michael's skin. "Did he blame Eroica?" 

Petra laughed, loud and sharp, a sound that made Michael smile. "The fireworks, Michael! They fought for three days." Petra looped her arm through his and started them back up the walk. "But you'll have to ask Mindy to tell the story. She's much better at it than I am now." 

*

Alejandro sat Michael down in the watch room at noon, the beginning of his first shift. It took Alejandro fifteen minutes to run through the various monitors, what they displayed, and how to read them. Then Alejandro leaned back in his chair and stared at the screens. "Now what?" Michael asked. 

Alejandro propped his foot up on the counter. "Then you wait. Honestly, it's pointless to check more than once every fifteen or maybe twenty minutes." Michael knew he was staring blankly, but it honestly didn't make sense. Four agents stationed out here to look at monitors every so often. Alejandro laughed. "Look, Michael, this isn't that hard of an assignment. You hang out, you eat pie, you look through the binoculars every so often to see if the Russians are invading. You'll settle into it." Alejandro slapped Michael's leg and then left. 

*

Gregory stuck his head through the archway to the kitchen while Michael was doing the dinner dishes. "Hey. There's some kind of dust-up down at the bar. You wanna go?" 

Michael shut off the tap. "Go ... fight?" 

"Nah, break it up. The nearest cop is, like, a day's drive away, so we're it." He waved at Michael to come along and then went for his jacket. 

Michael ran to catch up, grabbing his coat down from its peg and sliding it over his undershirt. "We, um, we provide local police service?" 

Petra was standing by the door, holding the keys and looking impatient. Gregory took them from her as he swept out. "When we can. It's a public service." Michael slid into the backseat and buckled his seat belt. 

"Aren't you on watch, Petra?" he asked as Gregory pulled quickly away from the station. 

"Alejandro took over. He hates these things." 

Gregory added, "Alejandro's who you call when your cat is stuck in a tree. When boys come off the boat and start causing trouble, they mostly call for Petra." 

Gregory drove faster than usual into town. Sure enough, a crowd (a crowd for Wales, perhaps ten people) had gathered on the sidewalk outside of the bar to watch two huge burly men, one bald and lacking sleeves and the other in a thick brown coat, grapple in the street. There was no shouting, no cheering. The crowd was just standing there, chatting, watching. A few of them were still holding their beers. 

Petra was out of the car and stomping over before the truck was stopped. Michael fumbled out of his seat belt and hurried around the back of the truck towards her. Each of the combatants had easily a foot and a hundred pounds on her. Petra shoved herself between them and started pushing them apart. She looked furious and determined. Michael honestly had no clue what to do. When Gregory got to the scene, he hauled the bald one away by his collar and Michael jumped out of the way when Petra pushed hard and slammed the other up against the truck. Michael felt completely superfluous. Gregory was interrogating his fighter (if the definition of interrogation could be expanded to include mutual shouting and swearing) and the man under Petra's guard seemed too drunk, or too punch-drunk, to respond to Petra's questions. She seemed to believe that grasping him by the open flaps of his coat and pulling him away from the truck to slam him against it again would help. Suddenly the wear and tear on the back end of the truck made sense. 

Michael turned to the assembled crowd and waved his hands. "Let's get back inside, everyone. The situation is under control." They grumbled as they headed back indoors. Michael didn't think he was making himself many friends in Wales. This was more of that small town entertainment. Michael sat down on the sidewalk and watched Gregory and Petra work. 

*

Petra had never come back for her letter from G. It lay folded on the desk in the watch room. Michael was on his sixth watch and he was beginning to find his watch shifts rather like meditation. There was something warm and calm about the dim room. It was barely bigger than a closet, and one whole wall was filled with screens and monitors that glowed faintly blue and indicator lights in red, green and yellow that blinked in regular rhythm. After an hour on watch, his breathing matched the slow rhythm. 

He had read G's letter for the third time. He was beginning to wonder if he was reading something into the paragraph about himself, or if he was reading what had been intended. He had spent his three months in Bonn pining after Agent G. It seemed, if not pointless, then certainly fruitless. G had seemed to welcome his company, for movies and dinners and shopping. Michael had always been soft-spoken, but G seemed to hang on his every word and value his opinion. They'd had picnics on the floor of Michael's sadly under furnished studio and Michael had fallen asleep on G's sofa more than once. And when he'd gone, G had made him promise to write, but Michael didn't have a clue what to say. 

*

Michael and Gregory were having rhubarb pie when Petra swung into April May's with a grand flourish and began reading. "Dear Petpet." Ah, another letter from G. Mindy leaned on the counter to listen. Petra hadn't even taken her coat off. "Just a little update for you in what is really a package for Michael (sorry!)." Petra produced a small rectangular parcel from under her arm and handed it over to Michael. It was wrapped in blue paper and tied with string and under the string sat an envelope with his name on it. He laid the package on his thighs. It would wait until he got back to the Station. The Major called yesterday to check in. He's been in Reykjavik eight days now, alone with Eroica. Z was out for lunch, so the Major deigned to speak to me. Moderate progress on the mission, but I could hear Eroica in the background. Lots of laughing and sighing, and at least one breathless 'Darling'. What do you make of that? Yours, G." 

"What can you make of that?" Mindy said, fanning herself slightly. Petra had made her way to the counter and she and Mindy began to examine implications in Eroica's sighing. 

"I can't imagine what this town will do for fun once the two of them have settled down together," Gregory said, cleaning his plate. 

"You're certain, then? That they will?" 

Gregory half-shrugged while drinking from his coffee cup. "There are a lot of things that can get in the way of people being together, prejudices and jobs and regulations." His eyes darted just for a moment towards the counter. "But if there's an attraction, y'know? No matter how much you fight it or other people try to stop you, it's going to happen. Eventually." 

Michael stirred his coffee. "Sooner rather than later, from the sound of G's letters." 

Gregory smiled. "Let's hope. If Petra gets any more excited, she'll burst." 

*

Later, while Petra was on watch and Gregory and Alejandro were trying to convince each other to get on the roof to realign the concealed satellite, Michael stole away to his room with his package. It had come wrapped in brown paper, Petra reported. She had torn it off in the general store. The string was tied with a bow, and the whole thing was surprisingly unmolested. The envelope flap was stuck just in the middle, and Michael slid his finger under to break it free. The folded sheet inside was precisely the same shade of off-white as the envelope. He smiled when he unfolded it. G's handwriting was as big as ever. He never had enough lines when filling out official forms. Michael had taken over that task for him. 

"Michael (it still feels slightly naughty to call you that!), 

I assume that the Russians haven't come across the Strait and dragged you off. I must assume because you haven't yet written me. You have to know that I miss you out here. I had dinner alone last night. I have no idea why I'm sharing that. I don't want you to feel pity for me (with you in Alaska!) but I want you to know that I miss you. Your desk is still empty and I keep looking up to say something only to find you're gone. 

"It's getting warm here, too warm in the office. There are days when I wish for Alaska. Things are going well for you, yes? I know it's an undesirable mission, but it always sounds like fun when Petra writes. Hopefully, they're taking good care of you. 

"In the box there's stationery. Just in case the people of Alaska have refused to sell you paper. Do write." 

It was signed (scrunched down at the bottom), "My love, G". 

*

Michael waited sixteen hours before he opened the box of stationery and selected a pale gray sheet. He'd read G's letter three more times. In that time, he had been ambushed coming out of his room to join the rest of the team for a (rather boisterous) game of Monopoly, and then an emergency call from Arthur down at the hotel, who was being threatened by a couple of roughnecks. He didn't feel sufficiently calm to compose a reply until his watch shift the next afternoon. He had his foot propped up on the desk and a book balanced against his thigh, and then spent an hour or so staring into space while he considered what to say. 

"Michael?" Michael almost overbalanced and banged his head against the wall. Alejandro, in the doorway, chuckled once, then held aloft a little white box. "Mindy sent pie." He set the pie on the desk, then gestured towards Michael's blank sheet of stationery. "What are you working on?" 

"A letter back to G. Apparently I have very little to say," Michael replied, with a rueful grin. 

"Eh, I doubt that." He laid a fork on top of the take-home box and closed the door on his way out. 

"Dear G," he wrote. His handwriting looked so military and precise in comparison. "I realized when I got your letter (your latest) that I've been here nearly two weeks. Time runs strangely in this place, measured between watches. I still feel like I don't know anything about this town, or this mission or what I'm looking at. I'm on watch now and surrounded by these monitors that never change. I have no understanding of the scope of the threat, whether we're expecting the Russians any day, or if we're mostly an honor guard to placate the Americans (I suspect it is the latter). I feel like I've been at the station forever, though. It is comfortable here, and you're right, rather fun. Out here on the edge of nowhere, Petra and our team members seem to be very serious about making their own fun. Also, I miss you. 

"I miss you more than being gone for fourteen days would warrant. As nice as things are at Bering Station, I would much rather be back in Germany with you. This is the most honest thing that I can tell you. I've been reading the letters you sent over and over, trying to read between the lines, to see what you really mean. And I have come to the conclusion that, perhaps, you meant exactly what you said, and you said all you could. I miss you and I will continue to miss you." 

The whole thing had poured out of the pen. After days of agonizing over a response, the letter had flowed as naturally as if they were face to face. Not that he would have said most of it face to face. He felt as if he had written another letter just under the surface of this one, and he both hoped and feared that G would read them both. 

Michael checked all of the monitors again while he thought about how to end it. It seemed that, after a letter full of bare honesty, he could do no less in the closing. "Yours always, Michael." 

*

Gregory was writing his weekly report to Washington and Alejandro was wedged under the console in the watch room fixing a faulty fuse, so Michael had agreed to company Petra downtown to pick up supplies. He slid his letter carefully into his inside pocket before descending the stairs. 

"Petra!" Andie Bloom called out as they walked into the shop. Andie lived on the opposite end of town from Bering Station, but Michael had seen her gossiping over coffee with Mindy at the diner. Petra left Michael's side to rush over. Andie grabbed at Petra's hands before she started talking. "I heard from Mindy about Reykjavik! Can you imagine? It will be all screaming and broken glass." 

Michael tuned them out until it was just incoherent screeching and turned to Tom behind the counter. "One airmail stamp, please."


End file.
